


Drabbles and One-Shots (SFW Edition)

by budgeridoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-31 03:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 18,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/budgeridoo/pseuds/budgeridoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of GerIta or solo!Germany drabbles and one-shots, also sometimes featuring Prussia. Ranges from fluff to angst, no smut here. Can occasionally get kind of heavy due to historical events.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knowing

Veneziano loves this side of Germany.

Other people don’t get to see this side, except Prussia and very occasionally Sweden and America. They don’t know, when they see Germany being snappish at America or working himself ragged with France, that Germany bakes the absolute  _best_  chocolate cake or knows how to make just about any dog anywhere sit by talking or snorts when he laughs. They don’t know that he can’t drink black coffee or that he kicks in his sleep (which is a little irritating sometimes), but Veneziano does, and he enjoys this. These small double victories, where he knows Germany more and is part of some kind of secret.

Veneziano knows these things, and lots of others, and even more than Prussia because Veneziano knows that it’s absolutely lovely to be like this with Germany, where his legs are on either side of Germany’s torso and one hand is curled in his shirt and the other in his light blond hair. And, and this is something nobody but the two of them know, Germany likes it too.

Veneziano found this out all the way back in the Second World War, and he was amazed that Germany would allow himself to be pinned like this, and then after the war he was amazed that Germany felt all right being pinned, that he didn’t flinch at contact like he did with the others. And Veneziano was amazed then, and still is now, that he warrants this kind of trust from Germany, that strong, steady Germany would allow someone as- as flighty as Veneziano this close, and it’s his personal secret how  _incredibly_ grateful he is for that. Although he’s planning on telling Germany that soon.

But not now, because right now his mouth is quite occupied and so is Germany’s, lips locked and tongues curling together, and Germany tastes like sweet coffee and the orange he’d been eating when Veneziano flopped down next to him on the couch. They’re not on the couch anymore, mostly because they both fell off when Veneziano climbed on top of Germany (it was unfair of Germany to laugh so when that happened, it’s not as if he hadn’t fallen off the bed multiple times and it’s hard to do anything on that couch anyway, it’s so squishy) but that is neither here nor there. What is here is Germany and Veneziano on the carpet, and Germany’s hands rubbing aimlessly at Veneziano’s back, and Veneziano’s toes curled somewhere by Germany’s lower calves.

Pulling away just a little, still close enough that he can feel Germany’s breath against his lips, Veneziano looks at him and there’s another reason he loves doing this. Germany’s eyes are half-lidded and bright, and his thin lips are curling up at the corners and there’s a pink blush across his high cheekbones, and Veneziano knows without looking that Germany’s hair is coming ungelled at the back from the carpet and if he sat up it’d stick out at angles. And that thought makes him beam and lean back down and kiss Germany again, bracing his hands on Germany’s broad shoulders.

Veneziano remembers the first times they kissed, way back seventy years ago, all fear and urgency and clacking teeth and the taste of soot and over too soon (and the time before then, quick and gentle and regretful) and there’s  _another_  reason he loves this, they’ve got as much time as they want now. Also they’re both way better at kissing now, so the tooth-bonking doesn’t happen so much anymore. For instance, they’re not doing it now, right now it’s all soft sighs and soft lips and Germany nipping at Veneziano’s bottom lip. He knows, without needing to open his eyes, the fan of Germany’s light eyelashes over his pale cheek, and it’s this and a thousand other reasons that make him press closer to the only other person who’s seen all of him and who he’s seen all of, and Veneziano smiles.


	2. Dust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for the Second World War.

When Germany stumbles through the door, the blood and ice and dust of Stalingrad, Goddamn Stalingrad, coating his skin and his hair and his uniform, the last thing he expects is Veneziano flinging himself at him.  
  
Well. He’d expected the flinging, but not the hugging. Honestly, Germany had thought more punching, and probably yelling-  _no supplies, they had no supplies and no training and you used them as a cover for your own army, and it didn’t even work, nothing, my people died for nothing_.  
  
That is what he would say if he were Veneziano, but instead Veneziano throws himself at Germany and buries his face in his chest, knocking the both of them into the door. Germany slides down the door until he’s sitting against it with Veneziano clinging to his grimy, cold jacket and sobbing, and he wraps his arms around him on reflex.  
  
Sobbing is one thing Germany had expected.  
  
Veneziano had been on an airlift out of Goddamn Stalingrad about a month and a half earlier, when Il Duce sent some sort of missive about how he was needed on the African front. Germany had received a few letters from him- Veneziano was good at sneaking things into the top-priority mail- and they’d all said mostly the same thing: the weather’s nice here, it’s very dusty and there are too many Englishmen but my boss and your boss both say we’ll win even though England’s very scary and America’s helping him now, please stay safe and come home soon. Then Veneziano would go on about the food there, and how he missed Germany, and then Germany would take the letter that smelled of sun (somehow, even though they’d been in a tiny cargo hold, they kept that scent) and fold it and keep it inside his jacket while his men and Veneziano’s men and Hungary’s and Romania’s and Russia’s starved and froze and bled around him.  
  
He’d been on one of the last planes out of Goddamn Stalingrad, because the Führer had eventually decided that Stand or Die orders probably shouldn’t be applied to an entire nation, and then he’d staggered through the door expecting Veneziano to hate him, and now.  
  
Now Veneziano clutches him and sniffles into his chilly Wehrmacht uniform and sobs  _oh thank God, you’re alive_  and cries all the tears Germany can’t, and Germany feels the Saharan sand in Veneziano’s jacket and the dust of the Krasny Oktyabr factory in his own and wonders how he deserves such forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stalingrad was a completely horrible, awful, prolonged battle for the city of Stalingrad (now Volgograd) which would basically grant the oil fields in the Caucasus to whoever won. It lasted five months, completely destroyed the city, and killed roughly two million soldiers.
> 
> Italians, Hungarians, and Romanians also fought there on Germany’s side; and the Italian army managed to distinguish itself very well, but was still not viewed favorably by the German army and was eventually used as a sort of cover to protect the Germans, which didn’t work very well at all mostly because of the sheer size, craziness, and cold tolerance of the Red Army.
> 
> The African front was still pretty awful, but less so than the Russian one, and it was known as the more honorable front, although this is probably because of a general lack of civilians to commit atrocities against. By the time this fill takes place (January-ish), the Americans had landed in Africa and the Axis forces there were being pummeled.
> 
> Hitler’s Stand or Die orders were just that: forbiddance of retreat. He used these often, and it generally led to the destruction of whatever force it applied to by the Allies. (Stalin also issued these, with similar effects, but the Red Army was so freaking enormous it didn’t matter as much.)
> 
> The Krasny Oktyabr (Red October) factory was one of the major battlegrounds within Stalingrad, and it was completely destroyed by the end of the battle.


	3. Fine Print

Ludwig’s worn glasses since the Second World War. 

It’s something Feliciano thinks about when there’s not much else to think about, but it is odd. Reading glasses.

Really, why did he start needing them?

So Feliciano asks around, and sees why the other nations wear theirs. 

Alfred got his after the Spanish-American War, and he’s nearsighted. Matthew is farsighted, and he got them after the First World War. Berwald and Manon won’t tell him, and Roderich… well. Roderich doesn’t even have eye problems.

Feliciano thinks Gilbert is wrong about many things, and Roderich is not one of them at all.

But anyway, Ludwig’s had his glasses since roughly 1946, and it’s a little funny because before then he’d read just fine. Although Ludwig hadn’t read much back then either, at least not that Feliciano could see, because they were always busy directing troops and you couldn’t wear glasses and use a sniper rifle at the same time and half the stuff Ludwig reads now got set on fire anyway.

But now he reads whenever there’s time, and Feliciano hasn’t seen Ludwig fire a gun in years and years, and anybody setting books on fire in Ludwig’s country gets in a  _lot_  of trouble unless it was an accident.

So Feliciano will walk in from work and see Ludwig with the glasses on typing away at some report or other, and sometimes it’s important and sometimes it’s not, but he works anyway because it’s Ludwig. Or it’ll be a bad night (they don’t happen so often anymore) and then Feliciano will shuffle out of the bedroom and see Ludwig asleep on the couch with his glasses on and a book on his chest (sometimes his face, and then when he wakes up he panics about accidentally drooling on the pages). Or it’ll be like now, when Feliciano leans against the couch and sketches nothing in particular, and Ludwig sits in the armchair and reads- aw, he’s reading Dante, Feliciano grins to himself-and occasionally “hm”s. And then Feliciano looks down and finds out that the nothing-in-particular he was drawing has turned into Ludwig sitting in the chair with his glasses on, looking at the book with raised eyebrows. Feliciano supposes that this is only fair, since he knows he’s managed to sneak into just about every part of Ludwig’s life it’s only right Ludwig should do the same to him, but he’d at least like Ludwig to know it was happening. So he gets up and walks over to Ludwig, placing the sketchpad in front of his book, and says, “What do you think?”

Ludwig jumps a little and stutters out an “It’s nice,” and Feliciano smiles and swings himself onto the armrest, peering over Ludwig’s shoulder.

"So what’s happening?"

Ludwig doesn’t even have to look at the book. “Virgil just stuffed Cerberus’s mouth with mud.”

"Oh!" Feliciano doesn’t ask him to quote, he knows the lines and he knows Ludwig knows them, so he settles further into the armrest and starts reading over Ludwig’s shoulder, and Ludwig pushes his glasses further up his nose- they slide down a lot- and turns the page.

The two sit in silence for a while, except for the turning of pages and an occasional “hey, go back- go back”, and by the time they’ve reached Canto X Feliciano is in Ludwig’s lap. Sometimes Ludwig stops and says “Wait, who’s he talking about again?” and then Feliciano explains what he remembers about Guelphs and Ghibellines, and Ludwig nods.

It’s dark by the time they’ve finished, and they both have work that really should be getting done, and dinner needs cooking, so Feliciano slides off Ludwig’s lap and Ludwig stands up and takes off the reading glasses. It turns out that lots more work needs doing than they thought, so dinner turns out to be leftovers (still good, because they’re Feliciano’s leftovers and he does  _not_  let good food go bad) and then there’s paperwork, so the reading glasses go back on.

Feliciano asks him why halfway through a proposal on trade agreements with Spain. Ludwig looks up through the glasses and says, “For the fine print,” and then keeps writing notes on the Reichstag’s budget plans. Nodding, Feliciano turns back to the proposal.

He remembers when Germany didn’t read the fine print, and he much prefers Ludwig this way.

Even with the occasional book stuck to his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So half of this is personal headcanon, yes. Germany has glasses now because a bureaucrat doesn’t need rifles and a soldier doesn’t need reading glasses, and he’d much much much rather be a bureaucrat now; and they represent his increased focus upon internal affairs and his citizens so that he doesn’t need to be a soldier again.
> 
> America’s glasses represent his turn away from isolationism (nearsightedness) after the Spanish-American War, and Canada’s are his turn towards making his own policies instead of watching England’s (farsightedness) and also his increased post-WWI agricultural expansion (again, focusing on things nearer to him). I have no idea what Sweden’s and Monaco’s (Manon’s) are, and Austria’s are in-canon stated to be aesthetic. Because Austria.
> 
> Dante et al: he was thrown out of Florence because of a dispute between the parties of the Guelphs and Ghibellines. Half the people in Hell in Inferno are there because of personal grievances, which tells you something about Dante. (The Divine Comedy is basically medieval self-insert fanfiction where Dante gets to be praised by Virgil and Homer and other famous ancient poets. Also it’s incredible.)
> 
> I have a feeling Lud didn’t do much reading from 1933 or ‘35 on, mostly because lots of the good stuff was banned or burned. Fun times. (And then there was the whole deal with postwar Allied censorship, too, ugh) But now he’s free to read whatever the heck he wants.


	4. A Modest Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy tries to propose to Germany and things don't exactly work out as planned.

Veneziano takes deep breaths and stares at the door.

He’ll have to knock soon- if he doesn’t, then he won’t go to dinner with Germany, and if he doesn’t go to dinner he can’t ask the question, and if he doesn’t ask Germany won’t say yes. If he wanted to. Which he might not, but Veneziano really doesn’t want to think about what if Germany won’t say yes.

He’s decided to take the initiative, because even though technically Germany had proposed first he’d told Veneziano to forget about it after he’d stopped acting like his brain had broken, and also because Romano kept yelling at him to just get married already, at least then you’d have an excuse for being so mushy and gross all the time, except Romano had used a lot more curse words when he’d said it. And Romano also got really mad when Germany even was the first to hold hands (which made no sense to Veneziano, it was a good thing when Germany did that, it meant he wasn’t being all awkward all the time and that was good) so logically if Veneziano did this Romano couldn’t get mad and ruin his good mood. Even if Romano took Veneziano taking the initiative as a sign of potatoey corruption and yelled about Germany anyway.

The door remains un-knocked upon, Veneziano should really do something about that, but every time he reaches out for it he starts thinking about all the what-ifs- what if he won’t say yes, what if I mess it up, what if he forgot- and then begins to wonder if this is how Germany feels all the time, no wonder he gets so anxious sometimes. And he can’t stop looking at the door to Germany’s apartment, and he can’t knock on it, and he’s beginning to feel profoundly stupid for even thinking of this whole thing when Germany inadvertently solves his problem by opening the door.

Germany’s got a suit on, like Veneziano, who remembers that the flowers he’s holding should probably go to Germany now, but he also wants to give Germany a hug, which would be hard if there’s a bouquet between them and the flowers might get smushed, which would be horrible. So instead Veneziano holds the bouquet in one hand and tries not to bonk Germany with it when they hug, and presses a quick kiss to his mouth.

“Germany,” he says as brightly as possible once he pulls away. “Are you ready to go?”

Germany nods, and he’s so composed, it’s not fair that he can be so calm when Veneziano is panicking inside, but then again Germany hasn’t got a reason to panic because he hasn’t got a ring inside his jacket pocket and Veneziano does.

Veneziano swallows down his nervousness, almost (it remains, heavy in his stomach and oh he hopes he can still walk like this), and takes Germany’s hand, pressing the bouquet into his other hand. He manages a smile and a cheery voice when he says, “Let’s go, then.”

“All right,” says Germany. “Ah- you still haven’t told me where we’re going.”

“To a restaurant, silly!”

“Yes, I know that. Which restaurant?”

They’ve reached the elevator by now, and Veneziano says, “You remember that place we went to a few months ago where they did such great things with duck?”

“Yes.” Germany raises an eyebrow. “It’s expensive, though.”

The elevator dings, and they step inside. “I know,” Veneziano says, “but I’m still paying.”

“Are you all right? You never pay.”

“Well, I should start then.” And the elevator dings again, and they walk past the concierge- Veneziano waves, Germany nods- and out into the late-June mist, where Veneziano makes aimless small talk in a fruitless effort to keep the bottom of his stomach from dropping into the floor every time Germany smiles at him, or every time he thinks of the ring- the ring!- in his pocket.

Deep breaths.

Deep breaths.

How does Germany not notice how nervous Veneziano is, his shaking hands, his shaking voice?

Deep breaths.

Before he knows it, they’re walking down the steps into the U-Bahn station and through the turnstiles into the crowd. It’s large, a rush-hour group of businesspeople and people going out to dinner or movies or-

Someone bumps into him and makes him stagger. Veneziano pays it little attention, but then Germany isn’t next to him anymore, he’s tapping him on the shoulder and saying “Feli, you dropped-“

Even if Veneziano hadn’t looked, he would’ve been able to see the dawning realization on Germany’s face, but he does look and it makes the shaking in his knees and the twisting in his stomach a hundred, a thousand times worse and somehow he stutters out “H-hang on j-just a moment” and pulls Germany off to the side and to the wall (he’s still looking between his hand and Veneziano with disbelief all over his face) without vomiting.

He takes a deep breath.

Another.

Veneziano takes the ring box from Germany’s unresisting hands.

Drops to his knees.

Opens the box (somehow without dropping anything).

And squeaks “L-Ludwig Beilschmidt. Will you m-marry me?”

Germany stares. And stares. And keeps staring, and drops the bouquet and turns red and just keeps staring, and Veneziano is shaking more than he ever has in his life, why won’t Germany say anything-

And then Germany is definitely not going to say anything, because he’s hauled Veneziano back to his feet by the shoulders and now he’s kissing him so hard Veneziano forgets to make any sort of surprised noise and just kisses back. They both fumble at the box, and before long Veneziano’s managed to slip the ring onto Germany’s finger and the ring box drops to the floor and Veneziano just clings to Germany’s hand with both of his and breathes him in.

They pull away slowly, and Germany’s as red as Veneziano must be and smiling nearly as widely, which doesn’t happen often enough at all and especially not in public. Eventually finding his voice, Veneziano says weakly, “Was that a yes?”

Germany’s eyes look a little damp, though it might be just a trick of the light. “Of course.”

They go in for the next kiss at the same time, and hold it, and for once Germany’s not all embarrassed about public displays of affection even though his shoulders do stiffen when someone wolf-whistles. Again, they pull away slowly, and Veneziano rubs his thumb over the iron and gold ring on Germany’s left hand.

Germany stoops and picks the bouquet and box back up. He dusts off the flowers and offers the box back to Veneziano, who pockets it again and takes Germany’s hand, and as they walk the rest of the way to where the subway will be his legs shake for an entirely different reason.

Dinner is wonderful.


	5. Fitting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick drabble about newlywed!GerIta.

It’s two months later and the words  _we are married_  still don’t quite fit into Germany’s head.  _Two months_  is a little easier, because what are two months when you’ve lived for hundreds of years?

And it’s not that their relationship has changed that much from before they got married. He still wakes up with Veneziano’s cheek stuck to his chest, they still drink coffee together and go places together; and Germany knows that it’s silly to expect that somehow being married would change everything, which is fine because he rather likes the way it is now.

Besides, it has changed. Sort of. Because Veneziano had always made it clear, even when they were first together and everything was new and terrifying, that  _I’m not leaving, Germany, not unless you want me to!_  and now Germany has, he supposes, clarified this in his own way. Not that he hadn’t before, no, but rings are… official, even if there’s just civil union papers to go with them.

All this fits in his head easily, the little separate bits, but  _I am married to Veneziano_  just… doesn’t, somehow. It’s too big. It means commitment, which is simple, and love, which is complicated but getting easier, and finding paint supplies in the dresser, which is just plain odd, and it means Veneziano wants to stay with him and nobody else, for reasons Germany thinks he’ll never be able to fathom, and this strange want of Veneziano’s is what makes  _married_  just that little bit too big to fit in Germany’s head and heart.

But, he thinks as he digs bottles of tempera out of the trousers drawer, and tries to detach Veneziano from his torso so that he can make him coffee, and sits in silence with him on the couch doing not much in particular, just this once it’s fine not having things fit.


	6. quello che ho detto

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Germany means to go to a hotel. He really does. So why is he sitting there outside in the rain?

He’s not going back inside.

He  _won’t._

Not after what Veneziano said.

Germany is absolutely, positively, definitely  _not_  going back inside. What he will do is go to a hotel. He will get out of the rain, and go to a hotel, and sleep off the anger boiling in his stomach, and maybe in the morning he and Veneziano can have a talk about what Veneziano said.

Except what Germany is doing is sitting on Veneziano’s doorstep, in the rain, and the canals all over Venice are starting to flood, and he’s not moving. Neither is he becoming less angry, because _what Veneziano said_  still rings in his ears, and so do Veneziano’s panicked apologies that Germany didn’t listen to, and so does the slam of the front door.

Germany sits.

It’s not as though he and Veneziano haven’t fought before, but it hasn’t been this bad since… well, it hasn’t ever been this bad. All the other fights hadn’t suffered from the combination of economic stress and political irritation and just plain bad days and a thousand unheld arguments and unsaid words and then the one little offhanded comment which he couldn’t remember who had said but which had brought those thousands of held-down fights right up to the surface, and out.

And now, Germany sits and thinks, he’s not going back in.

Then why isn’t he leaving? He wants to get away, he does, from the memory of those words and of how Veneziano’s round, normally-cheerful face had twisted when he spat them, and of how it had felt like all the air rushed out of Germany’s lungs once the words registered, and the way Veneziano’s face had frozen and fallen, and the frantic  _no I’m sorry I didn’t mean it please_ s that followed him out the door, and-

Germany faces resolutely forward. He will, he resolves, get up right now and find a hotel. Then he will call Veneziano so he won’t worry unduly, and then he will go to sleep, and he and Veneziano will talk in the morning. He will. He will, so why on Earth is he not standing up?

What Veneziano  _said_ …

That thought makes Germany stand up and take a few steps down the sidewalk, shoes squishing in the rain, before he realizes it’s not going to work and returns to the doorstep and sits and stews and doesn’t move, even though he should. Even though the words still sit like lead inside him, and the rain has plastered his hair to his face, and it’s been… however long it’s been (but it’s noticeably darker outside now, and the air is beginning to bite), he hasn’t left and he hasn’t come back.

Does Veneziano know he’s here? After all, the last he’d seen was Germany turning and slamming the front door behind him- for all Veneziano knows, Germany could be in some hotel somewhere and just too, too angry to let him know. And Germany knows, or hopes he knows, that Veneziano knows that Germany wouldn’t let him worry like that, but. He doesn’t know.

He shivers. The rain has soaked through his shirt, and it’s definitely cold now. Germany should go.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t know  _why_.

So Germany sits and waits and tries to figure out why, and then (finally?) the door opens and Veneziano sticks his head out.

“Germany?” He’s been crying- his eyes are puffy and red. “I- you’re here.”

He nods.

Veneziano takes a tentative step towards him, and softly says “Y-you can come in. If you want.”

Germany nods again.

“I’m really sorry.”

Silence.

“Really, really, really sorry. It was stupid.”

“… It was.” Veneziano gives a little jump when he hears Germany’s voice, and steps closer.

“You should really come in. You’ll catch cold.”

“Mm.”

Another step, and then there’s a warm hand on Germany’s shoulder and Veneziano is kneeling next to him and saying “I am sorry, I really am, but please come in before you get sick?”

And then he places his hands underneath Germany’s elbows and coaxes him up in the way that only Veneziano can, and Germany doesn’t really know why he lets Veneziano do this because _what he said_ -

But what Veneziano says now is “I’m still sorry, I didn’t mean it, please come in,” and he ushers Germany inside and onto the couch and presses a steaming bowl of straciatella into his (willing or unwilling?) hands and sits down beside him and tugs a blanket over both their shoulders, and Germany decides to just not think for a while about what Veneziano said and instead focus on what he’s saying now.

(Later, Veneziano mutters  _I’m still sorry, let me make it up to you_  against Germany’s now-warm neck, and Germany lets him, and decides that he will talk in the morning.

They do.)


	7. Diese kleine Stille

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless fluff; GerIta in a blanket fort with a radiator.

It’s one of those rare, completely quiet nights, the kind where everything is muffled by snow that hasn’t yet had the chance to get dirty and the Christmas lights shine gently on the small tree in the corner of the living room, decorated with the ornaments Gilbert gave them-  _they’re good luck_ , he’d said,  _you’ll need them with Prissypants at your wedding_ \- and tinsel applied by Feliciano’s favored method of throwing large clumps until it sticks. Christmas is a few days away, but there are already one or two packages under the tree- international mail is speedy this year.  
  
And this quiet night, previously disturbed only by the occasional car passing beneath their apartment window, is broken by Feliciano dropping an armful of pillows in front of the radiator and declaring it high time for a blanket fort.  
  
“I’ll start building it,” he chirps, already rearranging the furniture. “Would you make some hot chocolate please?”  
  
Ludwig, knowing that any attempt to dissuade Feliciano would a) be futile and b) result in him receiving what he privately referred to as Oh God Not The Kicked Puppy Stare, removes his reading glasses, sets down his book, and pads into the kitchen to begin melting the chocolate. He’s not quite sure as to why Feliciano thinks now is a good time, but there’s very little else to do anyway and again, attempting to stop him would be useless and honestly rather mean-spirited. The silence falls again, this time broken by a few soft thuds now and again when some part of Feliciano’s elaborate construction collapses. Ludwig, when he glances over at the living room, catches Feliciano dragging a desk lamp into the now-stable fort.  
  
“It’s ready!” Feliciano calls, voice muffled by the blankets draped over chairs and couch cushions.  
  
“Just a minute,” replies Ludwig, pouring the hot chocolate into two mugs and finding the Lebkuchen he’d made yesterday.  
  
Feliciano smiles widely when Ludwig enters the blanket fort, and takes the mugs before popping a cookie into his mouth. The radiator is inside the fort, which is warm shading to stuffy, so Ludwig shifts one of the couch cushions to the side to let in air in the seconds he gets before Feliciano flops on top of him and bears them both to the pillow-covered floor. Ludwig manages to drag them up into a sitting position, Feliciano pulling several thick blankets with them and making a contented noise around the cookie.  
  
“I brought your book in too could you move your left leg just a bit please?” says Feliciano once he’s swallowed his mouthful, and reaches over to flick on the desk lamp perched next to the radiator. He then turns to the task of rearranging his and Ludwig’s legs until he’s leaning his back into Ludwig’s chest with the blankets wrapped around them and their legs somehow already beginning to tangle, Ludwig should really look into how that always happens so fast but the light press of Feliciano’s toes against his calf and the softness of his pajama pants silence the few objections Ludwig could have made. Feliciano digs his sketchpad and pen from between two pillows and pushes into the touch when Ludwig absently runs a hand through his thick brown hair, letting out another hum and a small sigh. Acquiescing to the arm Ludwig tentatively wraps around his waist, Feliciano begins alternating between sketching nothing in particular (that Ludwig can see) and sipping from the now-cool-enough hot chocolate.  
  
Silence once again descends, small and comfortable, except for the scratching of Feliciano’s pen and the pair’s soft breathing. Every so often Feliciano yawns softly and shifts closer to Ludwig, who adjusts his hold on the other. He pulls the thick red comforter closer.

“Feli, there’s whipped cream on your nose.”  
  
“Ah.” Feliciano scrubs at his face, then looks up at Ludwig. “Are you— aw, you’re wearing the shirt!” He rubs his cheek against Ludwig’s collarbone like some kind of giant cat, setting his pen down long enough to poke the winged lion on Ludwig’s chest. Ludwig closes his book and wraps his other arm around Feliciano, mutters “It’s comfortable” and ignores the fact that he’s started to flush.  
  
“Mm. ‘S nice.” Feliciano seems content to rest like this with the smell of hot chocolate and Lebkuchen- they’re almost half gone- in the air. Ludwig peeks at Feliciano’s sketchpad- Roman arches at the top, a large Advent wreath beneath that, and now, to the side of a bunch of flowers, himself drinking hot chocolate  _when did Feliciano do that_? As he stares, blush beginning to spread, Feliciano fills in a few more details.  
  
“You’re good for drawing,” he says simply. “You know, you should really let me paint you sometime I mean I’m not sure where I’d put the painting but it’d be good, you’d look great painted, and you wouldn’t have to take off all your clothes just some of them.” Feliciano twists around within the confines of the blankets and pecks him on the jaw.  
  
“Uh. Thank you?” Ludwig does not say that Feliciano is, in all honesty, a far better subject for art because paintings are too static to properly capture the man leaning into his arms, smiling and smelling of molasses and spice and warm earth, and it would be one of those times where his words would stick and stop halfway through. Besides, even thinking it is making his blush intensify, and Feliciano might notice soon.  
  
Or perhaps he has, he’s looking at Ludwig with the sort of amused affection in his round eyes that seems to arise in these situations. Fully turning around, Feliciano snakes his arms around Ludwig’s waist and sighs against his collarbone.  
  
They remain like that for some time- Ludwig loses track of how long exactly- there’s no need to move, really, the now-finished hot chocolate and the heavy blankets and Feliciano’s warm skin and gentle breaths have lulled Ludwig into a state of half-sleep. Although it’s rather a large effort, he drags a hand up the curve of Feliciano’s spine and into his mussed hair, which he pets rather slowly and distractedly. Feliciano lets out a small yawn.  
  
Cracking his brown eyes open, Feliciano directs a sleepy glance up at Ludwig and shifts forward a little, hands sliding up his sides.  
  
That’s all the warning Ludwig gets before Feliciano touches their lips together in a quiet, unassuming kiss that Ludwig can see no reason to break at all, not when Feliciano is smiling against his mouth and nipping at his lips, not when he relaxes even more against Ludwig and parts his lips, tasting of hot chocolate, and Ludwig quietly loses himself in this too.  
  
Feliciano is laughing into his mouth, short puffs of breath, and his hands slip up underneath Ludwig’s shirt and down a little-  
  
Ludwig pulls away and grabs for his wrists. “I— I’d prefer not, tonight.”  
  
Feliciano looks at him, eyebrows raised just a bit, and then says “Okay,” and returns to the kissing, hands settled on Ludwig’s hips, and Ludwig allows this and pulls the blankets closer and rubs Feliciano’s back, yielding to his gentle affection as he nearly always does. Feliciano is so warm in Ludwig’s arms, so warm and soft and- and unconditional, strangely and terrifyingly content to be like this with Ludwig in a way he’s unsure how to understand, but these thoughts too disappear beneath Feliciano’s soft, dry lips and slender hands.  
  
Eventually they separate, mostly because Feliciano managed to tip them sideways and startle Ludwig in the process. It’s impossible to fully stretch out in the fort, but Feliciano doesn’t seem to care, instead curling up and mumbling something inaudible against Ludwig’s jaw, and Ludwig thinks that probably sleeping should happen in a bed, but Feliciano’s tiny, happy hum provides the convincing that he didn’t really need in the first place and he lets his eyelids grow heavy and slide shut, and the last thing he feels is Feliciano dragging another blanket on top of them.

* * *

 

 

Gilbert comes in after midnight, and is very confused to see the blanket fort, especially since it happened without him and there’s a light on inside it.  
  
He sneaks towards it, intent on giving the two inside a jump and probably gaining some cuddling for himself before they wake up and realize what’s going on, and pushes aside one of the blanket walls and-  
  
Huh.  
  
The blankets look like they’re a little too tight for Gilbert to comfortably fit in between Ludwig and Feliciano, and they’re pretty close together anyway, and besides Feliciano is snoring really cutely and Ludwig’s face looks relaxed for once in his tightwad life and it would kind of be a shame to disrupt that and he’s not going soft for thinking that at all, Gilbert just isn’t tired right now. So instead of trying to squeeze himself in between the two, Gilbert just turns off the desk lamp and crawls back out of the fort and heads to bed even though he really isn’t tired at all.  
  
Ludwig wakes him up in the morning, with an impressive case of bedhead, and Gilbert taunts him about the last night all through breakfast.


	8. Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Ludwig's first meeting after the Second World War, and he's thinking about the numbers. Don't make eye contact. (warnings: mentions of world war violence, nothing graphic)

It’s horrible to say, but he’s kind of glad that Eastern Europe isn’t there, because to look at Francis and think  _six hundred thousand_  is bad, but to look at Feliks and think  _six million-_

-Ivan and think  _twenty-six million_ -

-he can’t.

Alfred bumps him in the shoulder, and Ludwig staggers a little- Alfred flourishes, throws around money and plans and threats of warheads like a child with a new ball, and he is so very strong and loud. “You kind of have to go in the meeting room to have a meeting.”

Ludwig nods.

Deep breaths.

Just a meeting.

Deep breaths.

Follow Alfred.

Deep breaths-

He’s inside and there’re people in the room, people he hasn’t seen in four years and people he sees because they occupied his lands for four years, Arthur and Lotte and Mathijs and Francis and Feliciano-

_Don’t make eye contact._

Just. Sit down, next to Alfred loud and overbearing, don’t talk because they don’t want to hear,  _for God’s sake don’t look at them_  and Ludwig will be fine.

_four hundred fifty thousand nine hundred, eighty-eight thousand, three hundred and one thousand, six hundred thousand, four hundred fifty four thousand six hundred_

Ludwig has a government now, they have promised to help him (but isn’t that what  _they_  said too, we are only making you stronger and better and turn away from these people and these documents and these trains and  _he had listened_ ), but he lets Alfred do the talking still because Ludwig has seen and Francis has seen and Arthur has seen how very, very easily Alfred can get angry nowadays, and more people angry at him is the last thing Ludwig needs.

And it sticks in his throat, to follow after Alfred, to avert his eyes from everyone, but he knows that if he does talk barely two words can squeeze out of his mouth before all the shame comes crashing down around him, all the memories of every single thing his people did and he did and he condoned flying thick through his mind (like his planes over Warsaw and London and Alfred’s over Dresden) and now everyone is looking at him.

"I—" They’d been talking about him, definitely, because they tend not to let him into the meetings that don’t directly affect him, because Mathijs is skeletal and Francis’s arms are still bandaged and Feliciano doesn’t smile, but even now he can’t find his voice beneath the wrenching in his gut  _how can you speak to them how dare you speak to them-_

And in the end, all Ludwig can do is push the sheaf of paper Adenauer gave him into the middle of the table and stare at his lap, because he is weak and always has been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so the numbers are the estimated death toll from WWII for each country, in the order they’re listed
> 
> mathijs is the netherlands, which went through one hell of a famine in 1944-45, and lotte is belgium
> 
> america was a very very overbearing presence in west germany for a while, because it was right up next to all them reds
> 
> adenauer was chancellor of west germany until 1963 and he was hella cool like oh wow this man was great


	9. love notes through apple cake and cufflinks and other things besides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy thinking about the ways Germany says "I love you" without saying it.

He’s not one for grand displays.  
  
Germany has never been given to big events or public confessions (except for  _that one time_  that they don’t talk about because Germany still cringes a little if they do). He’s stopped being so cagey about everything, which is really good, but the sort of loud, open, cuddling-in-public affection that’s second nature to Veneziano just… isn’t, for Germany.  
  
And Veneziano knows this. How could he not? He knows Germany isn’t very good at saying things that have to do with feelings, at least not often. So it just isn’t something that Germany says often.  
  
It’s the little things, the thousand and one little things that Germany does with a small blush and a small smile that speak for him.  
  
It’s that Veneziano wakes up to find Germany’s pulled him closer in his sleep, when he wakes up before Germany, and when he doesn’t there’s always coffee waiting for him. It’s that Germany knows exactly which type of jam Veneziano likes on his toast- blackberry- and on special occasions how cooked he likes his pancakes- brownish- (and on very very very special occasions how much nutella he likes in them- as much as is humanly possible).  
  
It’s that the last time Veneziano was angry, Germany sat down and listened to him yell about politics for almost thirty minutes and then gave him tea once he’d screamed himself out and sat him down on the really squishy chair. It’s that the last time Veneziano was sad, Germany rubbed his back and let him cry all over his good shirt and calmed him down.  
  
It’s that Veneziano has noticed the grocery reciepts with pasta ingredients on them, and the notes Germany leaves when he has work and Veneziano doesn’t-  _don’t forget pants if you go out_ ,  _already walked the dogs but if they want it again would you please_ ,  _there’s extra gelato in the fridge_ ,  _back at 6_ ,  _have a good day_.  
  
And it’s that Veneziano has learned exactly how to cook apple cake, and which kind of coffee it tastes best with, and how to make nearly every type of chocolate cake in existence (even the ones that are really complicated), and even tortes.  
  
Even that Germany’s cufflinks and scarf are colored in a certain manner, even if he coughs and looks away when Veneziano asks about them.  
  
And Veneziano hugs Germany back, every time (he’s really warm, too) and knows which kind of cereal he likes, and talks him through the days when he’s withdrawn and sad, and he’s always always always on time when they Skype (or as on time as he can be), and he’s taught Germany how to make the special secret recipe for Ciambella Romagnola that only Emilia-Romagna and Tuscany know besides them (under oath of secrecy or he’ll tell Romano about it, he’s  _serious_ , don’t laugh about this Germany I mean it! but still at least he’s taught it), and he always has the Iron Cross on him.  
  
So it’s not a problem (not that it would be anyway, but now it’s even less of one) that Germany gets all nervous and stammery about hugging in public or saying  _I love you_  a lot the way Veneziano does, because he does say it a lot. Just not out loud.  
  
So when he does say it out loud in his deep voice, at the end of a long day or early in the morning when he thinks Veneziano’s asleep or just sometimes in between over a meal or on the couch, it’s something Veneziano already knows, but reminders can be just as good as the first time, or even better, and they taste of warm apple cake in his mouth, sweet and everyday.


	10. to the thud of the stalin-organs in our bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Italy gets out, he'll have a picnic. If he gets out. If either of them survive. Nearly-postwar GerIta. Warning for implied violence.

Every time the room shakes to the thud-thud-thud of the Stalin-organs, that dim little lightbulb flickers off-on.

Feliciano thinks it’s a miracle they even have a lightbulb- it’d be better to leave them in total darkness, so that whenever they get taken out for interrogation they’d be blinded and disoriented- but he won’t complain. Even if the constant flickering light makes him lose track of time, he can still keep it by the closer and closer boom of artillery and the unstoppable tramp of the soldiers’ boots.

He stares into Ludwig’s eyes, half-closed and hazy, across the small room and the artillery thuds again and this time dust falls from the ceiling it must be right above them and Feliciano doesn’t know whether to thank God or scream.

Time passes.

The room shakes.

The light flickers.

Feliciano pulls experimentally on the handcuffs in case it’ll work (but it hasn’t the thousands of times before when he was stronger and well-fed or fed at all) and glances at Ludwig again. His eyes are all the way closed now and his mouth moves but no sound comes out, and Feliciano doesn’t know if this is better than the times he tried to talk but sounded like his throat was full of ash and his lungs had been burned, and his leg is healing much too slowly for a nation. He’s barely moved since his boss died and Feliciano doesn’t blame him, when his own was killed it felt like a shell to the stomach with every kick even though he kept thinking  _yes thank you_ -

Another thud, huge, and that must have been a building nearby, and somewhere in Italy there’s another battle beginning and machine guns rattle along his bones, and Ludwig’s breathing roughens and becomes shallower.

The last words Ludwig said to him (or near him, he wasn’t lucid at all) were  _I’m sorry I remember don’t go_  and Feliciano had just stretched as close to him as he could and tried to shush him but couldn’t through a healing jaw and what if that’s the last thing Ludwig says ever-

Feliciano has to distract himself somehow.

He closes his eyes.

"You know what I’ll do when I’m out?" His voice startles himself, it’s scratchy and he hasn’t heard it since the last interrogation when they said  _where’s Lovino Vargas_  for the thousandth time and he said  _as if I’d tell you_  and then they broke his jaw.

Ludwig moves his head the tiniest fraction.

"I’ll— I’ll have a picnic." Feliciano squeezes his eyes shut and tries to imagine- himself and Ludwig, healthy and outside and not handcuffed to hooks in a concrete room underneath Berlin, in the sun in- in- "Big brother Francis has a house in Provence, he’d let me go there."

Feliciano tilts his head back to rest against the concrete wall. He can see it, almost, the stone house covered in climbing plants and Francis coming out to greet them, leaving his limp and his scars and the flickering on his face as he and Henri fight for control somewhere far away, and the lavender in the garden. “I’ll bring wine, and— and seafood risotto,” that would be good, he could buy the shrimp and the scallops fresh, and “Lovino could come too, he’ll bring more wine, probably, and, uh, maybe panzerotti di ricotta? Yeah, he likes sweets.” Lovino would be happy too, as happy as Lovino got anyway, because “And Antonio and Lotte will be there too, with gazpacho and chocolate.”

Another thud, and the clatter of masonry.

"You could bring Königsberger klopse, you make really good ones." Feliciano should stop talking about food, he’s so hungry and so are his people and his stomach feels like it’s trying to eat itself, but if he shuts his eyes really tight and strains he can nearly taste the Kartoffelklöße Gilbert would bring, and Ludwig’s breathing is evening out a little which is good because earlier it had sounded like bones in his throat.

The sun would be warm, beautiful weather, and Alfred and Arthur would be there as well, eating Francis’s cassoulet and Arthur would bring Yorkshire pudding which maybe wouldn’t be burnt and Alfred would bring cornbread, and Feliciano can almost not feel the artillery through his veins and the shaking of the room.

He keeps speaking, voice hoarse from no water and dust and the lead in so many of his people, about how he’ll invite Feliks and Tolys and they’d bring šakotis and paczki and be mobile and cheerful and not skeletal at all, and Herakles’s dolmadakia and moussaka would taste amazing in the outdoors and the man himself would be clean and able to sleep without shaking from hunger, and the thuds and bootsteps above grow closer and shake their bodies and it’s getting harder to talk.

There are bootsteps inside now, coming closer closer closer, and the light is almost out and Ludwig’s breaths are coming quick and harsh and Feliciano can hear a few faint whimpers and then the light goes out.

Left in the complete darkness, Feliciano tries to reach out with one of his legs and touch Ludwig, reassure him that he’s not gone, but he can’t reach (he knew that, anyway, but maybe this time it will work) and strains and strains and tries to think of lavender bushes and Erszébet’s goulash and he aches all over, so much, and the room stinks to high heaven and there’re people right outside the door.

 _Russians_ , Feliciano thinks, and then  _I wonder what Ivan would bring?_

Thud, thud, and the door opens and light floods into the room and there stands Ivan, tall and bloody and looking faintly horrified.

"Hello," Feliciano says, and then everything snaps off but the thuds throughout his land and body and the last thing he sees is when someone takes the cuffs off Ludwig and he slumps to the floor and doesn’t move.

(Seventy years later, they do eventually have a picnic, and it turns out Ivan brings pelmeni, and afterwards Feliciano lies on the grass with Ludwig and chatters at him just to hear him reply and the sun is very warm indeed, and it is finally, blessedly still.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> history notes:
> 
> mussolini died april 28th by shooting, his corpse was dragged through milan, strung up on a lamppost, and generally abused by anyone who wanted to
> 
> hitler died april 30th from either shooting himself or taking cyanide
> 
> berlin fell may 2nd and germany surrendered may 8th
> 
> famines struck in most nazi-occupied countries because of how the nazis would take the food back to germany, also blockades were a problem and fighting is not a good climate for crops
> 
> henri is francis’s split personality of vichy france
> 
> stalin-organs are another name for katyusha rockets, soviet heavy artillery
> 
> food notes (aka oh god kill me i want these): 
> 
> panzerotti di ricotta: a calabrian dessert of fried ravioli filled with ricotta
> 
> königsberger klopse: meatballs in capers, a prussian specialty and comfort food
> 
> kartoffelklöße: potato dumplings
> 
> cassoulet: rich meat casserole
> 
> šakotis: a lithuanian/polish cake
> 
> paczki: polish donut
> 
> dolmadakia: basically dolma, stuffed grape leaves
> 
> pelmeni: russian snack dumplings with meat
> 
> miscellaneous notes:
> 
> provence is the province of france containing marseilles down near italy and the alps and it is really fricking pretty and there’s lots of lavender and fresh seafood and i wanna go there


	11. Love in a Sensible Apron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta establishing their relationship with the help of sachertorte.

Germany began sifting the flour into the batter, feeling rather awkward and feeling silly for feeling awkward.  
  
It wasn’t that there was anything  _wrong_  with baking, not as such, but- but he was the Bundesrepublik Deutschland, the pillar of the EU, by private admission of his colleagues damn terrifying when he wanted to be, and he was standing in his kitchen in an apron making Sachertorte- not even a German cake, Prussia would either laugh or go on about how  _I knew I shouldn’t have left you with Prissypants so much_  but he would also eat the cake- feeling really very foolish.  
  
At least the apron was sensible and not pink or patterned or anything.  
  
Germany returned to his sifting, occasionally banging on the side of the sifter, until suddenly the door opened. He barely had time to look up before a certain Italian barged into the apartment’s kitchen and nearly caused a nasty flour-related accident, cheerily shouting “Hey, Germany! I thought I’d just come over and-” It was at this point that Veneziano noticed what Germany was doing. “Oh, I didn’t know you baked!”  
  
Germany averted his eyes and grumbled something to the effect of “knock before you come into my house”, and tried not to imagine what France and America would say at the next meeting after the news got out of the fearsome Germany’s cake-baking habit. There would definitely be laughter, he reflected morosely. Sly pastry-related jokes would probably travel around the meeting table for months.  
  
“Do you need any help?”  
  
He started- Germany’d been expecting a laugh at the very least, but Veneziano was staring at the mixing bowl with interest. “Um. If you want to help, you can, but I don’t really need it.”  
  
“Ah, all right,” hummed Veneziano, hopping up onto a clear space on the counter. “I’ll just stay here, then!”  
  
Oh. Okay. Germany could deal with people watching him bake. He could deal with- with Veneziano watching him, but that didn’t mean he didn’t go back to work with self-consciousness curling in his stomach.  
  
Silence reigned until Germany was stirring the batter again, and Veneziano piped up, “I don’t think it’s weird, you know.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“You baking. You were worried I thought it was weird.”  
  
“N-no, I wasn’t.”  _How had he known?_  
  
“Yeah, you were!” Veneziano nodded, sending his curly hair bouncing. “Your shoulders were all tense, and not in the I-have-too-much-work way either.”  
  
Veneziano really had no business noticing things like that, and Germany wondered what exactly it was that his heart was doing now, knowing that Veneziano did notice, and he staunchly did not apply  _fluttering_  to said action. Instead, he poured the batter into the pan and said “Ah.”  
  
“Yeah, and it’s not even the weirdest thing any of us do.” Veneziano looked around conspiratorially before leaning closer (Germany was momentarily afraid he’d fall off the counter). “England and France have embroidery parties.”  
  
 _Oh God, please don’t let that be a euphemism_. “Veneziano, are you entirely sure-“  
  
“I walked in on them once and France was stitching a pillow.” Veneziano slid back onto his feet and followed Germany to the oven, watching him place the cake pan inside. There was a definite laugh in his voice when he said “And don’t tell him I said this, but England is way better at it, too,” and words like that in a voice like that shouldn’t have made Germany’s heart do what it did.  
  
He set the timer and began setting up for making the glaze, even though you couldn’t actually make it until the cake was ready. Still, being prepared never hurt, and Germany told Veneziano this in response to his questioning gaze.  
  
“Mm, I guess,” said Veneziano absently, swiping his finger through the remnants of the batter and tasting it. “Hey, this is good!”  
  
“That’s unsanitary.”  
  
This only gained an eye-roll from Veneziano. “But it’s  _good_! Try it!” And he swiped his finger through the batter again and pushed it through Germany’s lips before you could say  _what are you doing_ , which Germany tried to say but failed due to the finger in his mouth and the blush on his cheeks.  
  
Veneziano smiled as though he hadn’t gone and shoved his fingers in Germany’s mouth and chirped, “Isn’t it good? You’re a great baker, you know.” And then he pulled his finger back out and grinned like Germany wasn’t spluttering and he hadn’t just  _shoved his finger in Germany’s mouth why had he done that it wasn’t what friends did_ -  
  
Then again, it wasn’t as though Germany knew exactly what friends did, and Prussia, France, and Spain were certainly touchy like that, and so was Veneziano. Who had definitely not meant anything by it, that was how Veneziano acted with everybody, and Germany squashed the little traitorous voice that said  _but you don’t see him sticking his fingers in America’s mouth, do you_ and the faint relief that accompanied it and buried them deep, ignoring his oddly closed-up throat.  
  
“Well? Wasn’t it good?”  
  
“I. Um. Yes.” And then Veneziano made a small, bright noise of approval and reseated himself on the counter, and began chattering about how it really wasn’t that weird that Germany baked, Romano wears pink aprons after all, and also did you know that Turkey’s in a knitting circle, he goes every week, there’s a bunch of old ladies and they all crochet together, I bet you didn’t know _that_ , did you, and Germany was surprised how quickly the timer beeped.  
  
He set the cake out to cool and began melting the chocolate for the glaze, and Veneziano kept talking- now it was about how Romano had told him that America had told him that he’d seen Canada and Cuba doing yoga- and Germany found himself laughing a little, which made Veneziano laugh, which made Germany’s stomach do that strange thing again.  
  
“-And also Poland told me that Estonia told him Finland nearly shot Denmark’s head off twice, so you just really can’t tell, can you?”  
  
“I think I heard about that from Sweden.” What Germany was actually thinking was  _only twice?_ , but the cake was probably cool by now and “Actually, Veneziano, if you could help me spread the jam?”  
  
Veneziano agreed, and Germany sliced the cake in half, and the apricot preserves and chocolate glaze were spread quite quickly, and then they had to wait again while the cake set in the fridge.  
  
Sprawling on the couch, Veneziano declared it siesta time since they had both worked  _so_  hard, and left Germany to do the washing-up. He didn’t seem to be asleep whenever Germany glanced over (and he was just checking that Veneziano was asleep, that was all) and indeed, after a while, began humming to himself.  
  
“Do you need any help?”  
  
“I— ah— not really, but-” And then it was too late, for Veneziano stood up and moved beside him and began drying the dishes.  
  
Germany noted he didn’t ask where they went, but put them in the correct place anyway.  
  
He also noticed that Veneziano was standing far closer than was entirely necessary, and glancing at him every so often only to look away when he noticed Germany looking back, and then Germany noticed that he was noticing these things and tried very quickly to focus on the soap and the mixing bowl in his hands instead.  
  
And more or less failed.  
  
“Is the cake ready yet?” Veneziano looked up at him, brushing Germany’s side.  
  
“It should be, yes.”  
  
Veneziano cheered, rushing to the refrigerator. Wiping suds off of his hands, Germany followed at a more sedate pace, fetching a pair of plates and forks and laying them on the dinner table and locating the cake knife. Removing the Sachertorte from the refrigerator, Veneziano sighed happily and cut two generous slices, handing one to Germany. He beamed as he looked at his own, sending Germany’s heart on another minor flip-flop, and chirped “It looks fantastic! Try some!” And he held a forkful out to Germany.  
  
Germany had his own perfectly satisfactory slice, and letting other people feed him- letting _Veneziano_  feed him- was weird and not correct friend behavior, but he accepted Veneziano’s forkful for reasons entirely unknown to him.  
  
"Is it good?" Veneziano was shifting around in his seat, looking incongruously nervous.  
  
Germany hesitated to compliment his own work, but “Pretty good, yes.”  
  
And then.  
  
And then.  
  
Veneziano leaned forward and kissed him quickly on the lips, mouth closed, and.  
  
And.  
  
Coherent thought took a few long moments to return to Germany’s head, and brought with it the whole noise of  _did that just happen it just happened he kissed me he kissed_  me _what do I do now why did he do that oh my God he kissed me should I kiss back oh my God I’m messing this up_ and Veneziano looked down and to the side, hands twisting around each other.  
  
"I," Germany said, and "uh."  
  
”Sorry.” Veneziano seemed to be trying to shrink, such a contrast from his earlier cheery mood, how was Germany supposed to deal with this?  
  
"No! No, don’t be, I— ah—" Germany searched for a way to continue that wouldn’t result in quite so much blushing and stammering, and, finding none, attempted to continue. "It’s— okay."  
  
"Really?" Veneziano brightened almost immediately. "You— you liked it?" He leaned forward, clasping Germany’s free hand. "I’m so glad, I was really scared about it for a while but you liked that and that’s good and I should eat my cake now but you liked it I’m so happy!"  
  
Germany reeled under the onslaught of words, but offered Veneziano a forkful of his own slice before he could think twice and stop himself, and Veneziano ate it with a smile and a little “mm!”, and they managed to finish half the cake that afternoon, and before he left Veneziano promised to teach Germany the secret to Ciambella Romagnola and kissed him again, tasting of bitter chocolate and apricots and something very new but very familiar indeed.


	12. maybe it is because

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy can't say "It's okay," and he can't say "None of that was your fault." What he can do is stay, although he doesn't know why. Semi-GerIta, warning for mentions of WWII awfulness.

Feliciano does not know why he has come back, now, to him, but he might have an idea.

Salò still hangs over the two of them like old rotten bones, and why should it not? Only two years ago, it was there, a king in Brindisi and a dictator at Lake Garda and gashes across Feliciano’s skin.

Yet he returned. He does not know why, only that the rest of Europe looks at him with suspicion: he changed sides, but did he? Feliciano knows that some- Francis, Herakles, Lovino- know, and he knows himself too, but what he does not know is why he has returned, returned to the man whose people and whose leader tore Feliciano and so many others apart.

Maybe it is because they were friends once, and lovers once, and with Feliciano Ludwig speaks, doesn’t just answer Alfred as he had answered his leader, yes-sir-no-sir-three-bags-full-sir. Maybe it is because somewhere under the countless scars they could be that again, they could be friends and more, and maybe they are despite the stink and shadow of Salò. Maybe…

Maybe it is because of times like this.

Times like this, when Feliciano wakes up to a cold bed. He staggers out and down the hallway of the dilapidated apartment, groggy and confused, because Ludwig is many things but right now Ludwig is curled up in the corner of the living room. His face is buried in his hands, which tremble and shake with nails bitten down to stumps.

Maybe it is because Feliciano does not have to ask Ludwig why he is crying. He cries because he has not for two-five-ten-fifteen years (or longer, longer, has Ludwig ever dared to cry where someone could see) and because Gilbert is gone, dissolved and taken, and Ludwig’s land is partitioned and he is so young- as if the war hadn’t proven that- Ludwig is so  _young_ , a child with a sharp mind and a strong body and so many expectations weighing him down, so many for one who isn’t really even seventy, and Feliciano suspects that he has not cried- has not been allowed- in far too long for one so young. He cries because he is lost and alone and adrift without the surety of Gilbert to ground himself on, adrift in a sea of corpses. Maybe Feliciano stays because he knows this, and he knows that Ludwig needs, more than anything,  _someone_. And he knows that he is the only person willing- the only person  _able_ \- to be that someone.

He kneels down next to Ludwig’s hunched form and pulls him close and does not shush him because Ludwig has spent so long being silenced and so short a time being heard. So Feliciano pats his back and strokes his hair as Salò rattles in the back of his brain and murmurs words of comfort.

Maybe it is because those words are not meaningless, not empty.

Ludwig’s hands fall from his face to clutch at Feliciano, like the child he is but is not because children cannot do what Ludwig did. Because Ludwig grew so fast, raised on war and maneuvers and suspicion and a man who had him sleep with a wrench instead of a stuffed bear. Maybe it is because they complement each other, Feliciano who was trapped a child for centuries as others profited off his land and Ludwig who never could be a child at all. Ludwig who sobs brokenly into Feliciano’s neck, all exhausted red-rimmed eyes and trembling arms.

He speaks, as he never does to the Allies, and Feliciano listens to the torrent of half-hysterical German,  _Gilbert_ s and  _my fault_ s and  _should have gone should have died_ s and  _so sorry_ s that tumble out of Ludwig’s mouth sliced around each other and pile in twisted heaps like emaciated corpses, no distinction between one or the other. Eventually they coalesce into lead-heavy  _I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry_  and Feliciano tries to soothe him, tries to take his apologies and fold them close to his heart like his hands, tries to mend what small parts he can of crumbling, shattered Ludwig.

Maybe it is because there is nobody else in the whole world willing and able to brush their lips across Ludwig’s forehead and swallow down the bone-rattle and say  _I forgive you_. Maybe it is because something in Ludwig’s eyes recalls a lost, frightened child and Feliciano has seen far too many of those.

Maybe it is because behind the Salò smell and the bones there are other bones at Amba Aradam and mustard-gas smell.

Ludwig sobs harder when Feliciano says those three words and four syllables, chokes out  _no_  and clutches him tighter. Feliciano can almost  _see_  Salò stretching out over him, adding to the millions upon millions of bones already in Ludwig’s mind, burnt and broken and rotting in ravines, and Feliciano cannot tell Ludwig  _it’s okay_  or  _none of that was your fault_.

Maybe it is because he cannot say that, but he can say  _it’ll be better_  and  _you are forgivable, I forgive you_.

Maybe it is because under the bones and rubble and burning and shattered land-people-pride, Ludwig is Ludwig and Feliciano cannot let that disappear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The king in Brindisi: Victor Emmanuel III, king of Italy and opposition of the ISR/Salò; the dictator at Lake Garda: Mussolini; Amba Aradam and mustard gas: Amba Aradam was a major Italian victory in Ethiopia, where the Italian army quite possibly used mustard gas as a weapon; Germany is very young indeed (76 years of nation experience as of 1947, and roughly half of that was Prussia calling the shots).


	13. PREPARE TO EMBRACE YOUR CREATOR IN THE STYGIAN HAUNTS OF HELL, BARBARIAN!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The G8 and China read The Eye of Argon. Not really GerIta.

Germany was unable to decide if this was better or worse than the time Veneziano had decided that unearthing Germany’s ancient collection of cheap romance novels and reading them out loud in  _interesting_ voices was a good idea, but judging from the insane grin on America’s face as he passed out papers to the rest of the assembled, it would probably be worse.

The annual G8-plus-China-because-we-don’t-want-to-make-him-angry-and-he-brings-sweets sleepovers usually got worse, however, and maybe reading wouldn’t be too bad.

Until Germany looked at the papers he had received.

And looked at them again.

Turned them sideways.

He could still read English, right? Then what in God’s name was this?

Glancing around, China and France seemed to be having much the same problem, Japan’s face had gone wooden, Veneziano and Russia were already snickering, and England and Canada suddenly groaned “Oh, God, not  _this_ again” in nearly perfect unison.

America sat down on his sleeping bag, clearing his throat. “All right, everyone. Here’s the rules. We’re gonna read this out loud, in a circle, exactly the way it’s written  _including typos and all adjectives_ and as soon as you start laughing your turn’s over. Also if you get through more than a page your turn’s over by default or you have to keep going after inhaling helium-“

France cut him off. “We don’t have any.”

"No helium? This party sucks. Anyway, so those’re the rules and does anybody have questions? No? Great." America looked around again. "Um. Canada, you’re starting."

Canada sighed in the manner of a particularly long-suffering sibling, and Germany would know about that. “All right.”

He took a deep breath.

"The weather beaten trail wound ahead into the dust racked climes of the baren land which dominates large— l-large— oh man.” Canada snickered. “Sorry. Russia, your turn.”

Russia cleared his throat, smiling distantly. “Large portions of the Norgolian—” He squinted. “Nor-go-li-an— Empire. Age-worn hoof prints smothered…”

Russia was  _good_  at this, unnervingly so, but “three heaving mounts” got a chuckle and then it passed to Veneziano.

This will be short, Germany thought. Veneziano had a talent for suddenly breaking into giggles anyway without phrases like— he had skipped ahead without regard for his sanity— “his shock of fiery red hair tossing robustly” or, for that matter, names like “Grignr”.

Veneziano began. “—In blinding clouds, while they bore the burdonsome…”

So far so good, and then.

Dialogue.

Germany suddenly remembered Veneziano’s propensity for doing funny voices, and so did Japan, and they shared a slightly panicked look before Veneziano squeaked “‘Prepare to embrace your creators in the stygian haunts of hell, barbarian,’” in a quite impressive falsetto. And then there was suddenly a shift several octaves down, nearly at Sweden levels of bass, for “‘Only after you have kissed the fleeting stead of death, wretch!’” and then a quite game attempt at pronouncing a name with only one vowel in it, which must have been difficult for him. Veneziano managed to hang on until “his rippling right arm thrust forth,” laughed, and passed it—

—to Germany.

Damn.

He’d rather been hoping to be passed over, but if even Canada got a turn, then he’d have to go.

"—sending a steel shod blade to the hilt into the soldiers vital regi— _organs_ , vital  _organs_. Sorry.” He could hear the cackles of Prussia from here, and also a great wave of relief that nobody had invited him.

Not laughing until “The enthused barbarian” was quite an accomplishment, considering the earlier mentions of “crimson droplets of escaping life fluid”.

To Japan. Who kept a straight face until “Grignr’s emerald green orbs stared lustfully at the wallowing soldier—”

-to China, who barely managed a sentence before handing off to France—

-oh God, France.

France had definitely played this before, or something like it, and finished off the chapter, lasting until “her stringy orchid twines of hair swaying gracefully over the lithe opaque nose”, at which point his professional cheap-romance-novel-reader voice gave out.

England didn’t even try.

America managed well enough until “a loin cloth brandishing a long steel broad sword” sent him into a giggling fit.

By the time it had come around to Veneziano again, there was something that possibly could have been a sex scene going on, although it could also have been enthusiastic hugging.

God.

The  _voices_. Even when nobody was actually talking, Veneziano still did voices and had specific faces to go along with them, and the one he made for “caressed her firm protruding busts” was a sight to behold.

As Veneziano managed to get past the word “thews” without losing it, which had obviously been a struggle, Germany wondered what would have happened if Romano had been here.

He ended up having to pick up at “segregated torso”, and decided that, considering the way America fell sideways at his attempt to do voices for—  _Grignr_? Germany still wasn’t very sure about that— perhaps this wasn’t a horrible game.

He still wouldn’t invite Prussia, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The Eye of Argon" can be found MST3K'd here: http://www.bmsc.washington.edu/people/merritt/books/Eye_of_Argon.html
> 
> All text from it is verbatim. You can't make this shit up.


	14. on rainy beaches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta at the beach.

The weather was curiously inclement for the summer, but at least they’d brought an umbrella.

Veneziano grinned, rolling off the towel. “Isn’t it nice, Germany?”

"Um." Was rain at the beach nice? It certainly hadn’t struck Germany as the type of weather that Veneziano would prefer, or the type that was accepted at beaches, but it was rather… soothing, he supposed. Quiet. Less likely to leave him with large sunburns.

Veneziano wasn’t exactly listening, instead having decided to roll around in the sand like some sort of overgrown puppy. “It’s great! Nobody else comes when it’s like this so it’s all private and I don’t have to worry about tripping on grandmas or getting in trouble if I lose my swimsuit or kicking sand in people’s food on accident and it’s just. Nice.” He had rolled full circle, and landed with his head on Germany’s leg, a little sodden and scratchy. “Don’t you think so?”

"It— it is not an opinion I have considered before, but I can see your logic and—"

"So yes?" Veneziano smiled up at him dopily, sprawled on the damp sand.

"Yes."

"Wanna go for a walk?" Veneziano rolled off of him, shaking off sand, and extended a hand which wasn’t really necessary to get Germany off the ground and, indeed, made Veneziano stagger backwards a little.

Germany brushed sand off his pants and took Veneziano’s hand and they set off down the empty shore, and he resigned himself to a soggy afternoon— although not as soggy as Veneziano’s, since a play-fight along the way ended up with him getting shoved into the surf, which he took with a smile and a handful of sand down Germany’s shirt— and an evening with Veneziano’s favored methods of warming up, which were more… acceptable when they were on vacation and could sleep in, and Germany decided that yes, rain at the beach was quite pleasurable after all.


	15. bleiben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta with a drunk Germany. He gets cuddly.

Veneziano can tell that this is going to be fun, although probably not for Germany considering how many other people are in the room and can hear him if they try.

Hopefully nobody’s going to try, and it’d be difficult anyway, since Germany had stuck his face into the side of Veneziano’s neck, wrapped his arms around his waist, and just… stayed there. Mumbling.

Veneziano pats his head rather absent-mindedly, enjoying how Germany leans into his hand and raises his voice a little. He’s pretty sure he hears “liebling” somewhere in the mumbling, and grins to himself. Germany tilts his head just enough to look up at him, and he actually looks pretty adorable, all flushed and wide-eyed and smiling, and Veneziano pulls him up just enough to kiss him on the cheek.

Germany appears to take this as incentive to try to right himself for long enough to pull Veneziano into his lap, nuzzling into the side of his head, and settles again, still smiling. “Y’re really cute,” he says in a sort of vague, cheerful tone. “I  _like_  you.”

Veneziano replies in kind, and Germany makes a happy, humming sort of sound and falls back into the mumbling.

That’s definitely “liebling” that he’s saying. And then “stay”.

"Of course!" Veneziano smiles broadly.

Germany pulls back again, bumps noses with Veneziano, and ends up kissing him.

This  _is_  going to be fun, or will be if Romano leaves the room before he notices.


	16. eis/ghiaccio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta ice skating.

Ludwig’s not an  _amazing_  ice skater, not like Ivan who can do complicated things with ‘triple’ in front of them that sound like car parts, but he’s really quite graceful in a very… streamlined sort of way. Which isn’t fair, because Feliciano can’t go three feet without wobbling and grabbing onto the railing and he’s slipped  _twice_  and now his butt is really cold and so are his gloved hands and this isn’t very fun.

He manages to struggle back onto his feet and move a few more steps, and then Ludwig skates to a stop next to him. 

"Need help?"

"No—" —he wobbles dangerously— "—yes."

Ludwig offers him a hand, and Feliciano grabs onto it before he falls over again. He manages to stay upright this time, but balks before Ludwig can pull him further out into the rink. “Lud that is not a good idea.”

"Yes, it is." Ludwig takes Feliciano’s other hand. "Just follow what I do."

Staring at Ludwig’s feet and trying to mirror their actions, Feliciano takes a few steps away from the railing— and nearly falls backwards. “Aah!”

"Careful!"

"I’m trying!" Feliciano realizes the problem— Ludwig is moving backwards and Feliciano was watching him and tried to move backwards as well which is  _not_  a good idea, and he tries to think backwards enough to move forwards which kind of makes his head hurt but then Ludwig says “You’re doing better” and Feliciano notices that he’s not wobbling quite as much anymore. He cocks his head a little, smiling.

They manage to dodge several other ice-skaters but Feliciano doesn’t fall over and that’s the important thing, but then—

—Ludwig lets go of one of his hands and moves to his side and Feliciano lurches again but actually rights himself this time, and they continue forward, Feliciano keeping one eye on Ludwig’s feet so that they stay in step.

He thinks his butt has dried out by now, and his hands feel less cold, and there’s the hint of a smile on Ludwig’s face, and Feliciano doesn’t fall over again until they have to stop, and Ludwig catches him that time anyway.

And then falls over.


	17. While His Name Is Still Spoken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A man isn't dead while his name is still spoken. Feliciano tries to remind Ludwig of this , after Gilbert goes. Off-screen character death, no other warnings.

Feliciano doesn’t think he’s seen Ludwig cry since the funeral two weeks ago. His eyes are a little red and puffy sometimes, but he’s not sleeping much anymore either, and he didn’t at all the week before the funeral— Feliciano would go out into the living room in the early hours of the morning, wondering why he wasn’t in bed, and find him trying to do work, or sitting and staring into space, and once just pacing— and it hurts Feliciano too, just as much as losing Gilbert had in the first place.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He asks Ludwig, every night, but the answer is always no. And then Feliciano will say "You’re sure?" and Ludwig will answer "yes" and that will be that.

If it had been Lovino who had gone, and not Gilbert, Feliciano knows he would talk about Lovino as much as he could. Man’s not dead while his name’s still spoken, after all. He’d tell everyone about how he had the coolest big brother, who always looked out for him, made up after they fought, kept him safe— that is what Feliciano would do. Silence does not suit him well, he knows.

Silence like this doesn’t suit Ludwig.

And then, one night, he turns to Feliciano in bed and murmurs “You know, once Gilbert tried to teach me how to drink but I was too small and he had to carry me home afterwards.”

After that, it’s like some kind of dam has broken within Ludwig and soon he’s laughing and crying and holding on to Feliciano and talking about the times Gilbert had picked him up and dusted him off— the times he’d hated Gilbert, when Gilbert forced him to repeat rifle drills over and over outside in the dead of winter and made him disassemble and reassemble the rifle over and over and over— the times he’d loved Gilbert, when they’d been a united front, two brothers one Germany, and Gilbert taught him everything— how he believed, really believed, everything Gilbert had told him, even the things that made Feliciano laugh, and he still believes them— how Gilbert had raised him from an overawed, fragile child— how despite everything Gilbert was his brother,  _is_  his brother, damn it all he was everything for so long—

Ludwig cries himself out that night, and Feliciano cries with him.

A few weeks later, they find a note in scrawly, familiar handwriting on the nightstand.

_hey- just wanted to see how you’re doing. feli, take care of the big guy. lutz, chin up and take care of cutie. augustus and opa send their love._

They both cry a little then, too.


	18. And I Read Too Many Romances (but then, that’s my only experience)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta. Kinda sorta. It's really Ger-->Ita. This was saved in my files as 'FUUUUCK', if that gives you any idea of what to expect.

It was mostly Germany’s fault, he supposed.   
  
Veneziano acted this way with everyone, showed everyone this innocent, trusting affection, kissed and hugged and said he loved everyone, and Germany had been foolish and naïve to take this to heart. To think that Veneziano loved him,  _loved_  him as Germany never thought he could be— deserved to be— loved, that Veneziano read past his stammering words and blushing and badly-timed, stumbling gestures and saw how much Germany loved him, more than he thought he could ever love anyone or anything.   
  
Foolish. Sentimental. Weak.   
  
But Germany remembered clear as a bell the first time Veneziano had turned that (beautiful, beautiful) smile towards him and said “We’re friends, aren’t we, Germany?” as though being friends with Germany was something wonderful, something to be treasured, something Veneziano would never regret once in his life and Germany’s breath had stopped in his throat and was it then that he fell in love? Was it later, when he realized that someone relied on him and trusted him despite his blatantly obvious faults? Was it earlier, when Veneziano had first smiled around him and Germany had never seen someone look so genuinely, perfectly  _happy_?  
  
No matter. No matter, because despite America’s laughs of “Your language’s got words for everything!”, Germany still was too cowardly, was and had always been, to look Veneziano in the face and say  _I love you_ , still could never find the words to say that even if Veneziano didn’t love him back— if, more like though— that didn’t matter because he was the first person to ever see Germany as more than an enemy, a threat, something to be placated or fought, to see Germany as a friend, and there were no words that could convey this to Veneziano.   
  
None.   
  
He must really be in love, or masochistic, or just plain crazy, he supposed, because why else would he sit next to Veneziano and listen to him talk about the  _beautiful_  woman he’d met, and swallow down a knot in his throat every time Veneziano called him a great friend, such a great  _friend_ , and come to Veneziano’s aid if he was scared or lonely or sad and protect him and trust him and  _love_  him so goddamn much Germany would do anything for him if only he knew how to say it, how to make it so that Italy returned this feeling.   
  
In the novels he read, they overcome this problem at the end. Love is requited, confessions are made, and they live happily ever after. This must be the problem with all one’s ideas of romance coming out of dime-store books: one begins to believe that one’s own life would turn out the same. Foolish, again, and naïve, again.   
  
He told Prussia, once, as carefully as he could, and Prussia had said  _if it hurts to be around him, why don’t you spend less time with him? You both have other friends_ , and the thing is. The thing is, he couldn’t.   
  
Veneziano was his first friend. The first person around him not out of family ties or political obligations, but out of desire to be around him. (Veneziano was a lot of firsts for Germany— first friend, first love, first kiss (technically), first goddamn near everything.) And Germany knew if he left Veneziano would blame himself for driving him away and Germany could not let that happen because all he wanted, really, at bottom, was for Veneziano to be happy, to keep that smile that set Germany’s pulse racing and heart aching.   
  
So Germany consigned himself to this foolishness, to staying by Veneziano through thick and thin, to taking the little drops of affection more closely to heart than ever intended even though he  _knew_  they meant nothing, because they had a friendship and he could not let that, too, fail. 


	19. displacement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for ptsd/shellshock and mentions of world war unpleasantness.

sometimes germany doesn’t know where he is

it’s because he’s in too many places at once

sometimes he wakes up and he doesn’t know— _home in bed and fire comes raining down on the city, so much, suffocating what it doesn’t burn—barely asleep in a scratched-out hole on the frozen steppe and the alarm sounds but there are already too many soldiers everywhere—dragged out of the house by black-clad police in the night and he knows where he’s going—_ and he launches upright, shaking and sweating and disoriented

sometimes he hears a door slam and— _the guns fire 33,771 times and there are still some alive beneath the others oh—god—crack-crack of artillery fills every waking hour he’ll go mad if he can’t get out—_ freezes solid because is he here is he in a ukrainian ravine is he in a trench in france

(once he went to america because america wanted to show him the sights (wanted to keep him in awe, you are in ruins but i am untouched, see my pristine buildings and well-fed people) and had gone to a july fourth party and the  _fireworks_ —

he’d bolted before anyone could see the tears)

sometimes the smell of meat cooking

something on the radio

looking outside

makes him forget where he is— _every single one of the twenty-four gouges across his back—legs blown off twice—coming back from under piles of dead or inches of mud or rubble of his cities—_ until he’s gasping for breath and trembling and curling in on himself

sometimes, though

just sometimes

(more often now)

veneziano is there

and when it happens germany wants to hide in shame— _rice factories and cephalonia—don’t show weakness you should not be weak—_ but veneziano takes his hands and brings him back, wraps blankets around him and gives him tea and honestly veneziano is not good at making tea

but when germany drinks the weak brew and feels veneziano’s warm frame leaning against him

for those moments he’s in one place 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> history notes: 
> 
> the first three flashbacks: firebombing of dresden, something on the eastern front, and everyone knows what the gestapo did
> 
> 33,771: the amount of (mostly) jews killed in the babi yar ravine outside kiev
> 
> 24: amount of death/concentration/holding camps in germany proper
> 
> rice factory: the riseria di san sabba in trieste was used as a prison for enemies of the reich
> 
> cephalonia: also the massacre of the acqui division, the wehrmacht massacred a bunch of italian soldiers in greece after the italian surrender


	20. adler und hund

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta with Germany having a back tattoo. Fades to black.

Veneziano drew one finger along the edge of a wing, humming in interest.  
  
Germany just didn’t seem like the kind of person to have tattoos, and it was a little odd to see the black eagle spread across his back between the shoulderblades, over old scars and the swoop of his spine, and Veneziano wasn’t sure whether the slight trembling in his stomach was from the fact that it was there or the fact that this was the first time he’d seen it. All the other times he’d seen Germany shirtless had been from the front, from barging in on him during showers, and that had been plenty good-looking but there’d been no hint of a black eagle.  
  
"Is that new?"  
  
Germany’s shoulders were hunched, and his ears had gone red. “No.”  
  
The silence seemed to be enough incentive for Germany to continue. “I got really, really drunk with Upper Saxony and Thuringia in the seventies.”  
  
"Oh." Veneziano traced his fingers around the feathers at the bottom of the wing and along one stylized talon, smiling to himself when Germany shivered a bit.  
  
Truth be told, Germany didn’t seem the type, Bundesrepublik Deutschland or no. He wasn’t… eaglelike. He wasn’t wiry muscle and airy thoughts and scratchy voice like Prussia, pride and cruelty like his leaders had once wanted; he was broad shoulders and deep baritones and powerful muscles, loyalty and obedience and intelligence.  
  
That didn’t make the stifled noise Germany made when Veneziano trailed fingers down his spine and around to his abdomen and down again any less interesting, though.  
  
Veneziano, he decided, was definitely going to acquaint himself more with Germany’s back, starting right now.


	21. Doge Is Not Pronounced That Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta with puppies.

There were three items of consolation Veneziano could draw from this event. 

One, Germany had agreed to house-train and walk them.

Two, he got to name one and compromise on another’s name.

Three, they were  _cute_. Really,  _really cute._  Cute enough that Prussia would probably have some kind of brain aneurysm from it.

Anyway, he’d got to name Enrico, because his long, thin face and pale eyes had reminded him of the old doge (and privately, Veneziano thought he was  _definitely_  the smartest), and Germany had named Berlitz, and they’d eventually decided, after much debate, that the third puppy could just get named by America since neither of them could agree on anything.

America had gone and named the third puppy Elvis.

They’d only planned to get one, though, but there was this  _look_  Germany had got in his eyes, all shiny, the type Veneziano knew he got when he was really  _really_  happy about something, and honestly it was about as easy for Veneziano to resist as it was for Germany to resist Veneziano’s puppy-dog eyes: impossible. And the only-one-dog had turned into all-right-maybe-two and then finally three-but-no-more- _I-mean-it!_ -stop-making-that-face-yes-you-are-making-a-face-don’t-try-to-lie-to-me-Germany.

(There was even a fourth item of consolation: coming home on Germany’s day off and seeing him asleep on the floor with puppies curled up on top of him was even cuter than just puppies, and just as much fun to hug.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (history notes in a 


	22. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta with deaf!Germany.

It always takes them a long time to get through dinner.  
  
This has been a constant ever since their very first date, when Feliciano’s hands had run away with him and he’d signed his way through two-thirds of a lecture on Byzantine mosaics before remembering himself. All he’d known about Ludwig then was he and Lovino knew him from signing classes and Lovino didn’t like him and plus he was really attractive and probably didn’t care at all about mosaics, even Byzantine ones.  
  
What he knows about Ludwig now is a lot more than that, but Lovino still doesn’t like him and he’s still really really attractive and he’s actually pretty interested in art, at least when Feliciano’s explaining it. Also on their second date Ludwig had started going on about how they’d discovered some evidence of bacteria on Mars which meant there definitely could be life on other worlds and then retracted his hands and looked sheepish (he’d said later,  _I didn’t know much about you except you and your brother were in my signing classes and you were considerably attractive and probably didn’t care about Martian bacteria_ ).  
  
The thing is, Feliciano honestly didn’t care about whether or not he’d cared about Martian bacteria before, but he  _did_  care about watching the way Ludwig’s large hands curved themselves around the words (and the way he’d started smiling the tiniest bit when Feliciano had begun asking questions).

So their dinner conversations last far longer than the parts where they’re actually eating, and occasionally Ludwig stops to correct Feliciano— _you have to lean your head like this; you sign that twice_ —which is good since he only started learning a few years ago, after Lovino’s accident, and Ludwig isn’t rude about it or anything.

Eventually they do get around to finishing their dinner, and Ludwig usually handles the washing-up, and Feliciano dries, and they bump hands as Ludwig sets dishes down and Feliciano picks them up. 

They lie on the couch afterwards, curled up against each other, and sign lazily  _well see the thing with Cretan art is it was kind of Italian and kind of Byzantine and so they really had their own art style it was really cool—the oceans would’ve been really saline but there are types of microorganisms that can survive that_ , and once or twice Ludwig laughs, which is a lovely sound—deep and a little loud—and as they reluctantly unfold to go to bed, he takes Feliciano’s hand in his own large ones and kisses it quickly.

Their conversations are long, and take longer, but who ever said that was a bad thing?


	23. Pencil

The sharp pencil starts with the basic form, sketching out the shape: broad shoulders, well-muscled torso, sturdy hips and strong legs half-hidden by blankets, before sweeping back up along the curvature of the back with its nearly delicate shoulder-blades. The shape of the head is next, details left for later, and then one arm half-bent so that it holds the corner of the pillowcase, the other hidden. There is the hand, large but always careful in its motions, nails short and a little ragged (he still bites them sometimes, a nervous habit is hard to break).  
  
Feliciano starts in on the shading next, leaving the details for last, the contours of the stripy blanket as it drapes over Ludwig’s lower half, and thank God he doesn’t move much in his sleep, or it’d be near impossible to really  _get_  the way the half-light through the curtains softens the sharp lines on Ludwig.   
  
Face next, so Feliciano scoots his chair in as quietly as he can. There’s something almost boyish in Ludwig’s face when he’s asleep, some softness that is missing when he’s in public and has to yell at people, and Feliciano knows he’s one of the few people to ever get to see the way Ludwig’s face relaxes and his thin lips part slightly and the tension in his jaw fades. His eyelashes, too, are longer than Feliciano would’ve thought, although nearly invisible, and they twitch against his pale cheek.   
  
The pencil delineates a high cheekbone, a strong jawline, disheveled fair hair, faintly arched eyebrows. Feliciano smiles to himself as he shades Ludwig’s cheek, adding the faintest of marks  _just_  where Ludwig would get a small dimple if Feliciano could make him laugh hard enough.   
  
He sharpens the pencil before moving to Ludwig’s back, drawing in the faint freckles across the top of it and the should-be-fainter scars all across, the dips on either side of his spine right before the blanket.   
  
Returning again to the shading, Feliciano softens lines and softens them again until the little sketch looks like what he sees the rare times he wakes up first, soft and half-lit and warm, calm and unguarded.   
  
Perhaps later, he will paint this in watercolors or oils, or ink it in until it is muted with early morning, but for now it is a pencil-paper sketch that he will fold and fold again, carry in his wallet until it creases and foxes at the corners, a soft-lined reminder to take out when he is far from Berlin and Ludwig and look at to see this sleeping young man with his strong frame and sweet face and guarded heart that fits Feliciano so well it is as if he were drawn into it in graphite.


	24. Five Times Germany Sang for Italy (Unwittingly or Not) and One Time Germany and Italy Sang Together

1\. The First Time  
  
  
Feliciano wakes up to an empty bed, which really is a little distressing, since it definitely wasn’t empty last night  _at all_  and that had been very interesting, but the smell of food cooking soothes his momentary worry enough for him to roll out of bed. He puts on boxers and pads towards the kitchen, following the smell and—the voice?  
  
The voice.  
  
Definitely Ludwig’s voice.  
  
It’s connected to Ludwig, who is standing over a pan of French toast in the kitchen in his pajama bottoms, and he’s singing—quietly, yes, but there—and he doesn’t seem to have noticed Feliciano, which is probably why he’s still singing.  
  
“ _…het ich niemals gemeint, het ich…_ ”  
  
And Feliciano’s not going to interrupt him, not when Ludwig’s voice flows through the phrases, deep and rich, and he tries to be as quiet as he can because Feliciano knows Ludwig and anyone who knows Ludwig like Feliciano does knows that bringing up something like this, especially by surprise after a night like _that_ , would do nothing but make Ludwig flush up to his ears and stammer.  
  
The thing is, though, it’s really kind of cute when Ludwig does that, and if he knows Feliciano likes his singing maybe he’ll do it more often! So Feliciano slips past the counter and slips his arms around Ludwig, mumbling “Y’ve got a really nice voice.”  
  
As expected, Ludwig splutters, and Feliciano can feel his blush from where his head is leaning against Ludwig’s shoulder.  
  
“I—ah—th-thank you?”  
  
But he doesn’t keep singing, instead he shoos Feliciano back to bed with a promise of French toast.  
  
Feliciano can hear Ludwig humming under his breath, though, and he grins as he bundles himself back up in the blankets.  
  
  
2\. The Time Ludwig Actually Admitted to Singing  
  
  
He does it in the kitchen a lot, Feliciano notices.  
  
Ludwig sings in the kitchen and, if Feliciano mentions it, he gets flustered and stammers and blushes and  _stops_ , which is not good at all because he’s definitely one of the best baritones Feliciano’s ever heard,  _especially_  when he does  _lieder_.  
  
Like he’s doing now, and Feliciano knows this one and it’s really kind of sweet and he wishes Ludwig would sing it to him instead of halfway under his breath.  
  
So he waits until Ludwig’s done and then sneaks into the kitchen and gives him another surprise hug and chirps “You know, I meant what I said that one time about your voice.”  
  
Ludwig sort of coughs.  
  
“I did mean it.”  
  
“Thanks,” Ludwig mumbles.  
  
“So how come you’re all embarrassed about it?”  
  
“’M not embarrassed.”  
  
Feliciano gives Ludwig a  _look_.  
  
“Don’t know.”  
  
“Well, if it helps, I think you’re a great singer.”  
  
Ludwig coughs again and averts his eyes.  
  
Feliciano tightens his arms around Ludwig again.  
  
  
3\. The Time Ludwig Actually Sang  _to_  Feliciano, Not  _Around_  Him  
  
  
Ludwig still sings  _lieder_  in the kitchen, and the thing is, Feliciano catches Ludwig looking at him when he sings. And blushing a little, but Feliciano can read Ludwig’s blushes very well and this one is the I-can’t-believe-I’m-doing-this one and not the oh-God-I’m-so-embarrassed one.  
  
Plus, they really are sweet, and the way Ludwig’s voice shapes itself around the vowels and scales makes Feliciano smile to himself.  
  
  
4\. Christmastime  
  
  
Feliciano snuggles up next to Ludwig on the couch after everyone else has left, and they remain silent for a while.  
  
“Heard you singing with Roderich and Erzsi and Gil,” Feliciano pipes up.  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah.” Feliciano rests his head against Ludwig’s arm. “D’you know any more?”  
  
“I—yes.”  
  
“Would you sing some?” He sends his best set of puppy eyes Ludwig’s way, just in case, and inwardly cheers when Ludwig mutters his assent.  
  
He sings  _Stille Nacht_  and  _Jesulein süss_ , quietly and a little haltingly but there, and Feliciano harmonizes with him on  _Adeste, fideles_  and holds his hand.   
  
  
5\. The Time Feliciano Tried to Teach Ludwig How to Dance (which, admittedly, didn’t involve singing as  _such_ )  
  
  
“Okay, okay, you’re doing good, okay—careful!”  
  
“Sorry!”  
  
“No, it’s okay,” Feliciano says. “Just watch your feet.” He guides Ludwig through a twirl as best he can when Ludwig is that much taller than him.  
  
Feliciano’s never been much good at dancing with less than two other people, and he knows Ludwig’s not much of a ballroom dancer, but that in no way will stop Feliciano from leading him around the living room in something that could be a waltz if nobody looks too closely.  
  
Ludwig raises his head. “Hey, wait, I know this song.”  
  
“You do?”  
  
“Alfred was very big on this music once.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
Ludwig nods, humming along, and lets Feliciano dip him.  
  
  
+1. The Time(s) They Got Kind Of Sappy  
  
  
It’s one of the madrigals every nation in Europe knows, from at least five hundred years ago, and even Ludwig knows it when he’s barely a hundred and fifty (but then again, Feliciano has suspicions), and they sing it sometimes after dinner.  
  
It’s not really a conscious thing, and it doesn’t matter who starts it, because the end result is Ludwig singing the steady baritone line and drying dishes while Feliciano takes countertenor and puts away the leftovers, and sometimes Feliciano hugs Ludwig from behind to feel the rumble of his rich voice, and they laugh about some of the lines and sometimes Feliciano makes sure to sing them in such a way that they make Ludwig blush all the way to his ears, which really is cute.  
  
And in the mornings after that, he wakes up to  _Mein Mund der singt_  from the kitchen.


	25. Road Home

Feliciano’s still got his coat and scarf on, even though the car is heated. Ludwig chalks this up to jetlag, he’d flown over from Canada because they’d wanted him to accompany the rest of the diplomats and then he’d had to get on the train up to Berlin almost immediately and now he’s pulled the seatbelt to its limits trying to crawl into Ludwig’s lap.

Ludwig’s also not got a lot of sleep lately, the endless cycle of budget meetings has intensified, and he’s wrapped an arm around Feliciano (he’s not letting Feliciano take off the seatbelt, though, there are  _rules_ ) and rested his head against Feliciano’s.

Opening one tired eye, Feliciano looks up at him, mumbling “ _Mi sei mancato_ ” and burying his face in the crook of Ludwig’s neck, trying to edge off of the middle seat and closer to Ludwig.

“ _Ich hab’ dich auch vermisst_ ,” Ludwig mutters back, one hand fiddling with the edge of Feliciano’s dark red scarf—a going-away present, and it’s a bit lumpy and uneven since Ludwig’s really not much of a knitter, but Feliciano seems to like it anyway.

Feliciano keeps talking even though he’s obviously exhausted, about how his bed’s always too big and cold without Ludwig there, and he misses the ginger cookies, and Matthew is nice but his pancakes aren’t the  _same_ , and his voice is nearly inaudible.

“Anything you’d like to share with the class?”

Gilbert has no right to be that awake, Ludwig thinks momentarily, but there’s no malice in it, and he makes a noise of vague dismissal.

The funny thing is, Gilbert’s voice is a little quieter than normal.

Feliciano’s gone quiet, pulling his scarf and the collar of his coat a little higher and letting Ludwig take his hands to warm them up.

“’N the train food was really bad,” he mutters. “You have any food?”

“Not on me.”

Feliciano groans in discontent and starts clumsily trying to go through Ludwig’s coat pockets in search of any food he might have lied about.

Gilbert snickers in the driver’s seat.

Ludwig grabs Feliciano’s wrists.

Feliciano yawns.

The car drives on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mi sei mancato: I missed you  
> Ich hab' dich auch vermisst: I missed you too


	26. fish soup and bedsheets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Germany knew he loved Italy, and when Italy knew he loved Germany. (And then neither of them told each other.)

it is nineteen fifty-two and feliciano comes over to visit him, says since they’re working together on coal and steel with francis and lotte and constantijn and emma they should really catch up, shouldn’t they? and begins making fish soup

he got the recipe from alfred, he says, when alfred was having a good day (the kind where he didn’t see ivan in every corner) and thought he should share it because good food is meant to be shared!

and they  _have_  spoken in years, because feliciano for whatever unfathomable unknowable reasons of his own has come to see ludwig at least once a month ever since the may when everything finally ground to a halt in dust and blood

and he brings food and ludwig has seen how his cheeks have returned from their hungry starved hollows of nineteen forty-four, have become round and healthy again, and his eyes glint like they used to before

and now it is nineteen fifty-two and feliciano hands him a bowl of chowder and sits next to him at the table

and his shoulders are not tense and defensive and he laughs easily and somehow, unfathomably, unknowably, he is unafraid around ludwig and he has stayed by his side not only through years of fire and blood and twisting pressure bearing down on them both but through the long dark aftermath of rubble and exhaustion and suspicious stares and whispers of  _murderer murderer once a worthless fascist always a worthless fascist_ and  _cowardly_ _turncoat weak traitor whose side are you on_  but feliciano has stayed and there is no way ludwig knows to thank him for that

and he has been consulting books recently about how to make sense of the twisting mess of gratitude and first-best-friend and kind-to-me and always-there and a thousand more things and the books are no help at all

but feliciano leans against him and tells a joke that doesn’t translate into german and laughs at it anyway and then laughs at his translation and the mess tangles in on itself into a ball of 

_i’m-in-love_

and ludwig chokes on his soup and in the end isn’t terribly surprised and feliciano says what is it?

nothing, just thinking

about what?

and ludwig answers just…things and in his head takes the little tangled ball and presses it close

* * *

 

feliciano has snuck into ludwig’s bed again since if he’s going to stay over he might as well

ludwig mumbles in his sleep and feliciano smiles to himself, cuddles into his chest

and he notices that ludwig doesn’t wake up in a panic and doesn’t go tense when feliciano hugs him and doesn’t flinch away from him like he does with so many of the others and instead puts an arm around him in his sleep and returns the hugs and talks openly to him and even laughs a few times but when he does it’s one of the best sounds feliciano’s ever heard

and he’s seen ludwig change, change from the terror of europe to terrified and alone to someone who can speak in public without shrinking in on himself

and he’s seen ludwig open up enough to cry

and he’s not defensive around feliciano, not terrified, and he’s used to feliciano hugging him and sneaking into his bed and always lets him

and he’s been thinking a lot about how exactly to unknot the strands of protects-me and protect-him and kind-to-me and trusts-me and he’s still not sure but maybe they shouldn’t be unknotted maybe they knot together like tapestry and form

_i’m-in-love_

and that makes feliciano put his arm around ludwig in return and in his head he wraps himself in the tapestry and pulls it close

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lotte, constantijn, and emma are belgium, netherlands, and luxembourg respectively; all these countries plus france, west germany, and italy were part of the european coal and steel coalition, which was a precursor of the eu


	27. Reasonable Discussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains fade to black.

This can’t be the hardest thing he’s ever talked about, but it is definitely up there.

“Well, uh, see, the thing is. The thing is. it has come to, um, my attention that when we have had…sexual relations in the past, I have been the. Um. The one on top.”

And it would be better if Feliciano weren’t grinning at him, and if he knows where this is going _which he does because that is the face he always makes when he knows where this is going_  he could just step in right about now and save Ludwig a little embarrassment.

But he doesn’t.

“And since that does not strike me as, er, particularly fair, I was wondering if you’d like to. Top. Sometime. Soon.”

He really shouldn’t be this embarrassed, either, it’s just a question after all, but what if Feliciano thinks it’s weird that he wants to—to bottom, or—

“—That sounds wonderful!”

—or that. That could work too.

Feliciano scoots closer to him on the couch. “So do you want to do it now or after dinner or later or what?”

“Y-you don’t think it’s weird?”

“It’s not weird!” Feliciano scoots even closer. “I like it, it feels good, and trying it with you would be great so do you want to try now or later?”

“Now would be all right.” Ludwig pecks Feliciano on the cheek quickly, still blushing.

And when Feliciano quite nearly jumps into his lap and starts kissing him, it’s not the most difficult thing he’s done at all, not by any stretch of the means.

 _And_  it does end up being pretty good, too.


	28. noise in the hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GerIta with mute!Italy.

There’s a very limited space for their hands to move, tangled as their bodies are n the blankets and each other, but they’ve managed this for years and why stop now?

_So what do you want to do today?_

_I thought we could just take the day off._

_Great. Breakfast?_

_Later._

_Coffee. Now._

_You are a grown man and can get up and make your own coffee perfectly well._

_But I don’t want to._

And they’ve really had this same conversation for years too because Feliciano will absolutely not move from bed unless the house is on fire or aliens are attacking, and Ludwig always makes him coffee anyway, and when he gets up Feliciano does the little silent laugh he always does—huff air through the nose, grinning so hard his eyes close and crease—and then burrows under the blankets.

 _Can you talk to me?_  Feliciano signs when Ludwig comes back with the coffee, and he says “yes” and slides back under the covers, glad for the warmth to his freezing toes (which he is not going to poke Feliciano with as a joke because that will make him spill the coffee which would be a mess), and Feliciano sits against the headboard and signs  _Just talk about whatever_.

And Ludwig does, about the time Francis invited him over for a family dinner and the time Gilbert nearly blew up his bedroom after discovering chemistry, and Feliciano huff-laughs and says  _And what did Arthur do then?_  and  _He must have really liked his science teacher, then_  and  _oh, that reminds me of the one time Antonio got convinced there was a missile silo under the high school_ , and Ludwig’s hands unconsciously move in time with his words because maybe he can speak but he’s been signing since the day five years ago when the cute man sitting next to him in the History of Architecture class had written notes to him and one of them had been “i’m trilingual english/italian/asl” and Ludwig had written back “why asl” and the cute man had written “because i can’t talk my vocal chords don’t work right” and that afternoon Ludwig had checked out a book on learning American Sign Language and he’d written the next day “would you mind helping teach me asl i’d like to learn” and how had it ended up like this?

Not that he’s complaining, not at all, because there is no way to complain about the man snuggling into his side, warm skin and stubbly jaw and a pair of the noisiest hands Ludwig has ever seen (never still, always signing or drawing or writing or just tapping on things), no way to complain about anything more than occasionally leaving wet towels on the floor because how could he complain about this?

Not with his mouth, not with his hands, not with any part of him.


	29. Not Quite What They Think It Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Bad Friends Trio is under the impression that Ludwig and Feliciano's sex life is much...livelier than it really is. How could they have ever gotten that idea?
> 
> Contains GerIta pretending to have loud sex.

See, the thing is, Ludwig doesn’t mind it when it, ah,  _happens_ , since Feliciano managed to get across to him that he didn’t mean it hurt, quite the opposite in fact. What he minds are the faces Gilbert makes at them in the morning.

There is the Eyebrow Wiggle, which wasn’t really ever funny to begin with, and the Stare Conspicuously At Feliciano’s Butt, which Ludwig is  _seriously_  going to talk to Gilbert about, and the Silent So- _You-Two_ -Had-A-Good-Time, and the You Distracted Me From My Video Games, and the This Is Bullying  _I_  Never Get To Do That, and generally Gilbert has a lot of faces.

He honestly wonders what face he’ll get in the morning for this.

Feliciano winks at him from his seat next to Ludwig on the bed, makes an astonishingly realistic and loud moaning noise, and hits the wall behind the bed with one of his fists before bursting into hastily muffled giggles. Recognizing his cue, Ludwig hits the wall a few more times for good measure (there’s a noise from the hotel room next door that sounds like Antonio falling off the bed) and bounces in place, silently thanking God for cheap hotel bedsprings.

Feliciano bites down on the sleeve of his overlarge button-down (someday Ludwig will have to talk with him about clothing theft, especially after that near miss at Alfred’s birthday party) to stifle the next round of giggles.

This will hopefully go better than the last time they tried messing with Gilbert and his friends like this, since that time, due to a combination of a low ceiling, a high bed, and a lot of effort needed to get any noise out of the springs, had ended in Ludwig getting a pretty nasty headache.

Judging from the low and unmistakably French whistle from the adjoining room at the next noise out of Feliciano’s mouth (how are they actually falling for this, he’s loud but not  _that_  loud), it’s going better than last time.

Ludwig punches the wall a little harder, just to make sure.


	30. No-Shave November

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feli wants to grow a beard, Ludwig begs him not to.

“Well, it is no-shave November, isn’t it?”

“It’s  _February_ , Feli.”

Feliciano scratches at his chin, which stubbornly refuses to display anything more than stubble (no matter how well it worked for Lovino a few years ago when he decided to grow a mustache and so much for family resemblance and shouldn’t it be Feliciano’s turn now but  _anyway_ ). “But at some point it was, wasn’t it?”

“Feliciano. That’s like saying since one day is your birthday the whole year is your birthday.” Ludwig is making that face Feliciano knows is the you’re-being-exasperating-but-not-enough-to-justify-sarcasm one.

Feliciano pouts. He shouldn’t even really need a reason to try and grow a beard, one which still won’t go beyond seriously advanced five-o’clock shadow that’s  _almost_  a nice short beard but not quite and Lovino  _gloats_  at him about it which is bad enough without Ludwig giving him weird looks.

“Do you really have to go through with this?”

“ _Anything_  to make Lovino stop smirking at me about his mustache.”


End file.
